Ghost Stories
by Naptime Ace
Summary: A growing collection of shorts that I've written on tumblr for various reasons and decided to compile here.
1. Harry Potter AU

Severus Snape was not usually seen as an agreeable man. In fact, one could say, that he was seen as rather _disagreeable_ the majority of the time by most everyone that had ever had the displeasure to know him. He was dour, he was mean, he was difficult, and he could make a grown man cower in fear with just a single glare; these were all facts about himself that he was actually rather quite proud of and were the most prominent proponents of his _particular_ personality.

All in all, it was agreed that Severus Snape was, generally, not a very nice man.

But that isn't to say that he was like this _all_ the time or to _everyone_.

In fact, it was the well kept secret of nearly everyone that had been under his care as head of house of Slytherin that he had a rather soft spot for those certain students. In further fact, Snape was very protective of his snakes, and made damn well sure that they were well and happy and successful.

This included, even, extremely troublesome students such as Daniel Fenton.

The boy always, _always_ , had one too many bruises for Severus Snape's liking. It reminded him far too terribly of his own time as a students at Hogwarts (of his own bruises and hidden bleeding wounds; both physical and- _not so physical_ ). But for the life of him, he _couldn't find a cause_. Fenton's parents were far too cheerful, he got along well with a majority of students, and the boy himself seemed far too nonchalant about everything in life for the bruises to have come from something more _suspect_.

It _enraged_ him.

First and foremost because someone, _something_ , was hurting one of his own. Hurting a _child_ , of all people, and such a kind one at that. And then secondly because he, _Severus Snape_ , brilliant potions master and extraordinary spy, could not _figure out_ what was causing it. He was frustrated to no end and his sour disposition only became more so the longer it went on.

Until one day he came across the reason, the _secret_ , quite by ludicrous accident.

He'd been knocked to the ground, in his _own office_ of all places, by an over exuberant ghostly teen. A ghostly teen that he immediately noticed looked suspiciously like a certain bruise-covered Daniel Fenton that liked to disappear at odd times like _this_.

Severus Snape was thoroughly unimpressed.

Especially when the ghost teen set about cursing up a storm, _in his office_.

He had no patience for foul language from a student like that.

"10 points from Slytherin for inappropriate language, Mr. Fenton," he growled.

He watched the boy give a satisfying start and immediately try to protest, "But Professor, I didn't-," before slapping a hand over his mouth as he realized his mistake.

Snape gave a cruel smirk, his initial suspicions confirmed and an answer to his earlier frustrations finally found. Just another student that liked to play hero.

He'd heard of Phantom after all, as had most of the staff at Hogwarts as he was the talk of the castle ghosts, but this was the first time he'd been seen. And having ghostly attributes while still being alive wasn't _too_ far fetched of an idea when magic was involved.

But again, Snape frowned, Phantom liked to put himself in harm's way when it came to protecting others, liked to take the brute force of an enemy's punch in the name of saving others.

Just _another_ student that liked to play hero.

Snape gave a long suffering sigh as he got back to his feet and brushed the dust from his robes before glaring up at the still shocked face of his student.

Daniel looked panicked and looked about to open his mouth and, likely, spew a torrent of excuses and denials and useless protests, before Snape raised a silent hand and set about digging in one of the drawers of his desk.

He promptly pulled out a jar of bruise-healing paste and tossed it over to the floating ghost teen who fumbled with it but still managed to catch it, holding it close to his chest after reading the label with wide eyes.

"Be more careful next time, Mr. Fenton," he snipped before exiting his office and closing the door behind him with a decisive snap.

 _Why must he always deal with the troublemakers?_


	2. Hospital Beds

Vlad was getting terribly tired of being poked and prodded and monitored 24/7 by nosy doctors and scientists. It was a living hell he'd been in for _ten years_ now, since the accident where the ecto-acne had first invaded his blood-stream. The doctors still didn't know what was wrong with him or how to fix it and the scientists were going rabid with the test results they kept pulling from him.

He was a walking plethora of unknown phenomena and they weren't about to let him go, no matter how desperate he felt to leave.

(It was for his _health_ , they would say. They still don't know all the _side-effects_ , they would protest. He needed to stay in _quarantine_ , they would state, he could infect the populace.)

And Vlad was getting so tired of it all. Tired of the painful, bubbling pools of ectoplasm that littered his face. Tired of the invasive needles and test and x-rays and injections. Tired of the hovering doctors and hovering geneticists/sprectrologists/biologists/any type of scientist imaginable, that would hug their clipboards to their chest in excitement when something unexpected happened (like various body parts turning invisible, his side table floating when he got angry enough, his legs sinking through his mattress).

He was getting tired of everything.

But there was _one_ thing, that kept him going, that never failed to liven up his day.

It had started a quite a few months ago and soon became a point of joy in his life.

Someone out there, and he could never tell _who_ , would send him flowers every week and they would arrive at exactly three pm every Saturday. They never failed to deliver.

So at two forty-five that Saturday Vlad waited for their arrival with bated breath.

The flowers intrigued him, for they were always the same type, because they made him sick to his stomach but they also helped him control his powers. He hadn't slipped up with them ever since, which meant that the scientist were slowly losing interest in him and nearly about to deem him safe to leave the confines of his bed (his freedom was so close he could almost _taste_ it) and it was all thanks to the strange smelling roses he was sent every week.

He didn't know how the stranger knew about their effects but he was thankful for it nonetheless.

He could still remember the first and only note the flowers had ever come with.

" _Vladimir,_

 _The flowers will make you sick, so be careful. Keep the petals, however, and your powers will be under your control soon enough._

 _Good luck,_

 _-CW_ "

It was a mystery he couldn't hope to solve.

A nurse suddenly made her way through the door, holding a bouquet of blood red roses. It was three pm exactly.

She set them on the table then left without a word. She'd stopped trying to talk to him years ago, he never responded anyway.

Vlad eagerly set about plucking the petals from the stems and tucking them under his pillowcase. It was the best place to keep them and hide them from the doctors.

Then he noticed the note.

" _Vladimir,_

 _You only have a few more weeks, I promise. So please hang in there._

 _Good luck,_

 _-CW_ "

Vlad held his breath and rubbed the note between his fingers reverently. Oh god how he hoped it were true.

Slowly, he tucked the card in with the rest of the petals, making sure it was secure and hidden. He'd wait it out, leave, and then hunt down this mysterious CW until he could fully thank them and repay them for what they'd done for him.

He settled down for a nap and slept as peacefully as he ever had since first being admitted to the hospital.

It wouldn't be until years down the road that he'd be introduced to the Master of Time himself and finally, finally be able to repay him in full.


	3. Not A Child

It was uncouth, it was a _scandal_ , it was the _juiciest_ piece of gossip to float around the Ghost Zone in _years_.

Clockwork, the man that was seen as somewhat of a recluse, even by ghost standards, was dating someone that was still _alive_. Granted the man was half-dead but he was still so _young_.

Clockwork was practically robbing the cradle!

The man was only in his forties! A child!

It was only at the annual Truce Party that the more proper of the ghosts were all able to accost him about it, question and confirm it. And then give him a firm talk about dating the live ones that were too young for ghosts like himself.

Clockwork didn't give a damn and Vlad was just becoming more enraged by the second.

"I'm fairly sure there's a rule about this Clockwork, you can't just go about-," the ghost, a prim Victorian woman all done up in black and glowing green lace, was suddenly cut off by Vlad's snarl.

"I'm _not_ a child," he hissed, his fangs showing as he bared his teeth, "I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, _thank you very much_."

"Oh, you poor thing," the Lady cooed, completely unfazed by what she saw as a temper tantrum, "you're so _young_ by our standards. You don't know what you're doing with an older gentleman like Clockwork. But don't you worry, dear," she had the audacity to pinch his cheeks, "we'll make sure everything's okay."

Vlad slapped her hands away and she let out a scandalized gasp, " _I'M NOT A BABY._ "

The other ghosts nearby tittered disapprovingly, really they were only doing this for his own good. Couldn't he see that?

Clockwork himself had settled back, both amused and thankful that the ghosts had yet to set upon him with their clucking and cheek-pinching. He'd let Vlad handle this how he wanted. Danny, who had just so happened to stop by at the truce was having the time of his life and laughing his ass off. This was priceless.

"Of course you're not, dear," the Lady said patronizingly, "but you're still not old enough to be dating a ghost. You're still _alive_."

Vlad sputtered, "You don't even have a say in my relationship! You can't tell me what I should and shouldn't do! This is ridiculous!"

"We're trying to save your virtue, darling," another of the properly dressed Victorian ghosts sidled up beside the first, "Older gentlemen can take advantage, you know."

Vlad's face twisted in offended anger, he couldn't even come up with a coherent response.

"If you are talking about sex," Clockwork decided to join in at the worst possible moment, because he was an asshole and he liked making _everyone_ uncomfortable, and stirring up trouble, "It's a bit late for that."

Affronted gasps were heard all around and a hush almost seemed to fall over everyone at the party, Danny could be heard crashing to the floor from where he'd previously been floating about in the background (he _really_ hadn't needed to know that much about Vlad, or CW for that matter). Vlad was blushing and he fully intended to slap Clockwork silly at the next opportunity.

"My _word_ ," one of the Ladies muttered.

"There must be a _law_ ," another of them murmured.

"It's just not _proper_ ," one of them tittered.

One of them outright fainted.

"And _you_ ," Vlad turned to Clockwork and stabbed a rigid finger to his chest, "won't be getting any more any time soon."

With that Vladimir Masters stomped his way out of the Truce Party with as much dignity as he could muster.

Clockwork grinned knowing that Vlad was bluffing completely.

At least they were never bothered by the Ladies about their relationship ever again.


	4. Viscount Vladimir Masters

Viscount Vladimir Masters was in desperate need of a wife. He was wealthy, he was handsome, and he had one of the highest titles within the peerage of the locality; one would think that mothers all over Amity would be begging him to take their daughter's hand in marriage.

The problem was that they _were_ , but the Viscount was a horribly picky man. A man with eyes on only one woman; the formerly Honorable Madeline Spinnet, daughter to the respectable Baron Spinnet. Unfortunately she was now known simply as Mrs. Fenton. She had married down to a _buffoon_ and it irked him to no end to be reminded of it, yet it was _still_ the scandal of the season.

So, Viscount Vladimir Masters was in desperate need of a wife.

It was at a Gala he was hosting, something he hated with a passion but saw as a necessary evil, that the most unexpected answer to his problem arrived. He'd also tried to reject it vehemently, it was most certainly _not_ a solution and he despised the mere thought that it could even _be_ one.

His ultimate solution came in form of the arrival of the Marquis Charles von Work. A handsome man with a title higher than his own and a reputation as an absolute _rake_ (though none of the rumors that followed him like a miasma seemed to have any sort of real foundation).

Whispers had swept through the hall, buzzing over the music still being played in the corner of the ballroom of the Viscount's grand Manor. No one in these parts had ever seen the man in these parts before. The Ladies and Mothers tittered behind their hands and were practically drooling over the fine cut of his clothes, signifying a very wealthy man, and without a woman on his arm he must be _single_. But the scar on his face, a pale thing over his left eye, quickly notified everyone in the vicinity _just_ who he was, causing a collective sigh to pass through the hall. No one had a scar like that aside from the roving _scoundrel_ Marquis Charles von Work

The damnable man had set eyes on him, a moody Viscount stewing in the corner of his own Gala when he should be socializing to find a wife, and that had been the end of it. The Viscount had been done for from the very start, even if he hadn't known it.

It had started with an offer to dance and Vladimir had nearly choked on his brandy. He'd spluttered, a very undignified mess for the first few moments, before he'd reigned himself in to observe the man before him, trying to gauge what sort of Marquis would even dare to _jest_ about such a thing.

He was dressed remarkably, looking just as rakish as the rumors suggested he was with a lopsided grin and a purple velvet suit. Vladimir thought he looked ridiculous. But somehow, someway, he was still charmed by the merry glint in the man's eyes.

He'd been very firm in his first thought to say no. It was only proper after all. But then he'd taken another look around his ballroom, now stock still and roaring with furious whispers at the audacious, ludicrous, _outrageous_ , actions of the Marquis, and he'd come to the conclusion that he didn't quite give a damn anymore.

He'd taken the proffered hand and the Marquis had led him onto the dancefloor, the stings in the corner taking their que to start a new song (bless them) and then they _danced_. Charles led, holding him scandalously close, and Vladimir couldn't find it in him to mind, not with the acerbic wit, sharp enough to rival his own, and the sheer _charm_ that poured so smoothly out of the other man's mouth. The Viscount found himself laughing harder than he ever had in his life and blushing harder in than he thought feasible. They danced like nothing else in the world even mattered and Vladimir soon found himself being swept off his feet.

The song changed to a new one and yet they kept dancing. The peerage bustling about his home seemed to thaw around him, disapproving titters still following them but at least they weren't the only ones on the dance floor anymore. They were now surrounded by other couples who refused to give a damn, caring instead to follow the revolution being carried out by their betters (they were the two with the highest titles after all).

The song changed again and the whispers still lingering in the hall cried out in outrage. There was significance in a third continuous dance. It was practically a _marriage_ proposal among the upper class. Vladimir was having far too much fun for once in his life to care.

He faced his social ruin with a smile and in the arms of someone he knew he could grow to truly care about. The merry glint in the Marquis's eyes never diminished, it only seemed to _grow_.

They would later decide to move to France and live out their lives in peace. Together. Never once giving another damn about anything.


	5. Drama Club Confessions

Vlad was here, in this godforsaken cesspool of a high school drama club, because he knew acting skills would be an asset for going into big business later in life. What he was _not_ here for were the ridiculous activities that the Director, a very scary looking and highly opinionated Ms. Manson, was throwing at them to supposedly help build their skills.

Vlad called bullshit. This wasn't acting this was _humiliation_.

He was standing on the small and poorly lit stage, eyes blinking at the harsh lights and sweating slightly from the heat they bared, facing another student with bright white hair and a smug grin that, if Vlad were just a little bit more violent, he'd be tempted to punch off his face.

It didn't help that he was cute. As soon as his name and this guy's, Michael, had been called out and they'd both stepped on stage he knew he'd been doomed. It was that cliché moment. " _Oh no, he's hot._ " And Vlad had nearly tripped on the tiny set of stairs.

He hadn't had high hopes of this going well. He'd seen a few of the other students go through the other starters for impromptu acting and it made him cringe to think about what they might end up with (not that anything could be worse than when they were going over _pantomime_ , that had been frighteningly physical and intimate).

But then, fucking _then_ , Ms. Manson, with a smug smirk on her face (like she _knew_ he hated this class and hated her and hated everything and would hate this even more) read out the instructions and he could have sworn he died that day right there on the spot.

"You two," she said imperiously, holding the activity book in one hand and point a black painted nail between them with the other, "have to act out a scene where you confess your _love_ for one another. And make us _believe_ it."

There were oohs and catcalls and Vlad wanted to sink into the floor and never be seen again. He was blushing from his head to his toes and he noticed Michael, who had looked so smug earlier, was blushing just as hard and had definitely lost his composure.

Well, that made him feel a little bit better. But not by much.

"Can-, uh, can we have a minute to plan it out at least?" he head Michael stammer beside him. At least he wouldn't be the only one making a fool of himself.

"Nope!" Ms. Manson sang, "This is to practice impromptu skills, which means _no planning_. You have to learn to react to and with your fellow actors at the drop of a hat, things can go wrong in the middle of a production and you have to carry on like nothing's wrong. That's where the real strength in acting lies. You have to learn to make it up as you go. So no planning and don't forget to project!"

Vlad realized he was probably being overdramatic (ha) but he couldn't help but want to both panic and murder everyone in the room at the same time.

They faced each other awkwardly, limbs twitching occasionally with nerves. Neither even knew where to start.

"I wanted to tell you something," Vlad blurted out the first thing that came to mind, vomiting his words in a rush and refusing to look Michael in the eyes.

"Louder!" Ms. Manson interrupted. "And don't forget to set the scene! Tell a story!"

"I wanted to tell you something after class!" Vlad shouted, feeling worse than awkward.

"Okay!" Michael, at least, was just as clumsy and too-loud-sounding. "Well, math just ended and I don't have any other classes, I guess. Did you want to do this, uh, here?" He gestured vaguely to the empty stage.

Vlad shook his head, wanting to prolong the inevitable before he realized he only made it worse. "Let's-," he lowered his voice to what counted as a mumble on stage but still sounded like screaming to him, "go somewhere more private."

And without a second thought he grabbed the sleeve of Michael's purple hoodie and dragged him aimlessly across the too-bright stage and he wanted to walk right off of it and into a pit of raging fire, maybe drag the cute boy behind him with him.

Not like it would make a difference, the fire, he was pretty sure he was already in his personal hell after all.

He stopped and let go of Michael's sleeve like it _burned_. The empty echo of their footsteps on scuffed up wood stopped with them and left silence to reign in the theatre again. Tension was high and he didn't know what to do next. He knew what he _wanted_ to do, which was hide forever in a nice dark cave somewhere, but that wasn't exactly feasible at the moment so he needed to do _something_ productive.

"What did you want to tell me?" Michael's voice rang out and he nearly flinched. And, oh god that meant _he_ had to be the one to say it first and everything was awful and embarrassing and those lights were _too damn hot_.

"I-," he needed to make a _story_ dammit, something that made sense, his thoughts scrambled to come up with something else that could delay the inevitable, that could fill in the blanks to this sorry excuse of a scene.

"I love you?" it came out strangled and high pitched and he hated everything in the world, he wanted to bury himself in the ground.

"What?" Michael was blushing just as hard as he was and he had the audacity to actually look _startled_ by the "confession" and Vlad was going to kill him when this was over for making him say it again.

"I love you!"

His heart was pounding in his chest and there was a feeling bubbling up in his chest and he felt _giddy_.

"I love you!" he said it again with eyes clenched shut and hands trembling in fists at his side. If he didn't stop he might start hyperventilating.

He cracked an eye open to peer at Michael, who hadn't said anything yet and _shit_ , no wonder the asshole looked speechless. His eyes were wide and Vlad was pretty sure he wasn't breathing and his stunned silence was kind of doing things to Vlad's heart. No one had the right to look cute like that.

"I, uh," Michael finally managed to stutter out, the words coming out like a whine, "I love you, too."

And Vlad would never admit that his heart skipped a beat and dear lord what was even happening it's not like this was _real_.

"Yeah," the other said, more resolutely, more firm, "I love you, too."

And it was Vlad's turn to stop breathing, eyes wide, as he could almost believe those words too.

Then Michael kissed him on the forehead and gave a quick bow before practically throwing himself off the stage, leaving Vlad to stand there like an idiot still shocked. The smattering of applause that followed jolted Vlad out of his stupor and he gave his own sloppy bow before high-tailing it out of the spotlight.

Ms. Manson didn't say a thing, just called out the next two students with a smug smile.

Vlad slumped down in the seat next to Michael, intending to hide and yell at the other for leaving him out to dry like that but then the other boy fidgeted nervously and smiled and he was still blushing and Vlad melted.

Maybe drama club wasn't so bad after all.


	6. Dresses

Clockwork felt like he was walking on cloud nine. Things were finally coming together. After years and years of planning, he was finally living in the moment he'd been dreaming of and working towards. All of the tiny twists in time, all the tiny pushes in the right direction and finally… He was going to be happy.

Vlad had invited him to tea.

It would be the first step of many, but it was an important one.

He and Vlad would get to know each other, they would talk and bond, and eventually… They would fall together like they'd been meant for each other since the beginning.

If he'd had tangible feet in that moment he might've felt like breaking out into dance.

Clockwork arrived at the door to Vlad's mansion and felt a twinge of nervousness in the depths of his core, but he ignored it in favor of the light, happy feeling. He floated through the door, intangible and invisible, as Vlad had asked him to arrive without being seen to keep up his cover of normal human mayor.

He floated through the house until he came upon the sitting room they'd planned to meet. He returned to the visible spectrum and sat down to wait.

And he waited.

And waited.

He became so restless and nervous he decided to do something about it. Maybe Vlad forgot about tea? Maybe Vlad forgot about _him?_ The spike of nervousness hit again.

He'd go find Vlad and find out.

There were certainly drawbacks to not being able to see everything involved with yourself as the Master of Time.

He floated up and about, looking for Vlad's room. Eventually, after a few trials and errors, he found the right room.

And what an interesting thing he'd found along with it.

Vlad seemed… rather occupied. With trying on… dresses.

Several of them were strewn over the bed in the middle of the room, even more of them were discarded on the ground. They were in all kinds of styles and colors and designs. Some were large and fluffy and grandiose. Others were slim and summery and delicate. And in the middle of them all… stood Vlad, eyes going over his figure in the mirror and hands anxiously spreading over the dress he currently had on— a beautiful dark blue number that hugged his chest and flared out at his hips to fall gracefully all the way to his feet (it complemented his eyes)— and Clockwork was struck with awe at how _lovely_ he was.

The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, "You look wonderful."

Vlad jumped before spinning around to face his sudden visitor.

Vlad blushed. Clockwork blushed.

Vlad's eyes widened further from their shocked state as he processed what Clockwork had said.

"Th-thank you."

Clockwork grinned, "You're welcome."

Sometimes it paid off to not know everything that would happen next, especially with surprises as lovely as this.


	7. Us Against The World

It didn't seem to matter how long Vlad had been in space; no one on Earth had forgiven him for his ridiculous stunt and was still, _still_ , treated as a leper everywhere he went. He understood for the most part, failing to take over the world like that had been the worst and, frankly, most ludicrous plan he'd ever tried to execute and had it been anyone else he would have been furious too. But it still hurt.

Being lost in space could make you reflect on things. Things you would have adamantly ignored otherwise. Things that might have been screaming at you from the back of your mind but you were too lost in bitterness and the thrill of power to take heed from it.

And Vlad had been floating in space for _years_.

But if he could've stayed in space he definitely would've, but unfortunately, while his ghost half sustained him for a _very_ lengthy period of time it couldn't sustain him forever, else he'd become a full ghost. Which might have been preferable to the pure hatred and vitriol that was spat his way, every day. It was starting to wear him thin.

He made runs for food every other day, rummaging and collecting as much as he could. He, Vlad Masters, was dumpster diving to survive. They'd taken _all_ of his wealth after all and he deserved nothing less, even if it hurt and further bruised his wounded pride. He'd fallen just as far as he ever could and he felt the shame deep in his bones. He regretted what he did but he didn't know what to do about it but wallow like the scum he felt he was. It was what he deserved, as he had decided in space, to be alone and hated.

So one could imagine his surprise when he found Daniel Fenton standing outside the door of his hovel, looking nervous and unsure.

Vlad paused and simply observed the boy that had once been his "enemy." He'd grown. Vlad felt oddly proud.

"Are you lost?" the question came out of his mouth unbidden but he didn't take it back.

"No," Daniel shook his head, "I don't think so, at least…" the boy, a young man now, narrowed his eyes and looked more closely at old man before him. Then his eyes lit up in recognition and Vlad held his breath in shock when Daniel gave him a small smile. "Found you, Vlad."

"You-," he didn't know what to say, "Were looking for me?"

"Yeah," Daniel said softly, "Ever since…" he trailed off and let the rest of the sentence hang in the air between them.

Vlad clung to the ratty leftovers of his suit, at a loss for words and confused beyond anything else, "Why?"

Daniel looked away, off into the distance, and grimaced. But, oddly, Vlad didn't think it was because of him. He'd seen that haunted look before. Likely in the mirror at some point. "Everyone deserves a second chance," the sentence was strained but said firmly, like he truly believed it.

"Even me?"

A resolute nod. "Even you," the boy smirked a bit and Vlad felt better somehow, "Fruitloop."

Vlad returned the smile, and opened his mouth to speak before a rattling crash caught their attention and something came hurtling towards Vlad's head along with the words "Go to hell, Masters!"

Vlad was just able to dodge thanks to the leftover reflexes of his ghost half, but the pain these encounters usually caused him seemed deeper now. Worse.

"Hey!" Daniel shouted and Vlad jumped at the sound, "Fuck off!"

"Language, Daniel," he chided before he could stop himself, shell-shocked at the young man's reaction. Out of all the people to stand up and _defend_ him…

Daniel gave him another cheeky grin, "Aw, come on Vlad-ster, I'm an adult, I can say what I like."

Vlad scoffed but, again, he couldn't hold back from returning the smile, even if it felt cracked and lopsided from disuse.

"Besides," Daniel continued as he slung an arm over Vlad's shoulders and walked the man away from his crumbling hovel, "It's us against the world now, Vladdy."

"Us against the world?"

"Yeah," he nodded enthusiastically, "You and me, bro. We'll get you back on your feet and everything. Together. That sound alright?"

"That sounds perfect, Daniel."


	8. What's In A Name

It was nearing graduation time and all the seniors of Casper High were abuzz with excitement. Even the so called "losers", more accurately: Sam Manson, Danny Fenton, and Tucker Foley, were geared up for graduating and discussing it with each other, swapping details and grievances ("My mom will not get off my back about finding the 'most perfect, prettiest, graduation dress.'And like hell am I actually going to wear anything she picks out.")

But to be precise, _Sam and Danny_ were the ones talking about graduation, at least once they had gotten around to talking about graduation invitations. Showing off the cards their parents had either made them design (Danny) or had a specialist design (Sam) and both mocking the other for having pretentiously fancy cards.

Tucker, on the other hand, had shied away from the topic. For one very good reason.

Tucker Foley had a deep dark secret. One he'd never told anyone ever before. Not even Danny, who he kept _no other secrets_ from.

It was a secret he'd hoped to literally take to his grave.

But, alas, luck was not his lady today.

"Tuck?" Danny turned to his best friend with a raised eyebrow, realizing he hadn't been contributing to the conversation like he usually would,

"Huh?" Tucker replied distractedly, hoping to play it off as if he'd just been daydreaming.

But his friends knew him better than that.

Sam narrowed her eyes and punched him in the shoulder, "You know, you haven't shown us _your_ graduation invite. What's it look like? Can't be any worse than mine."

Tucker looked away, "Yeah, that's what you think."

"Tucker," Danny said with a laugh, "it can't be _that_ bad."

"It is," Tucker deadpanned, "but it'd have to tell you something before you understood why."

Danny and Sam exchanged a look, wondering at their friend's strange behavior. Tucker wasn't usually this solemn. It was weird. Weirder than ghosts weird.

"Okaaay?" Danny drawled out, hoping to get Tucker to start explaining.

Tucker heaved a sigh, resigning himself to open the can of beans he should have spilled a long time ago. They were his friends, they deserved to know why he was suffering.

"Tucker isn't my real name."

Sam and Danny exchanged another look.

"Ha ha, real funny, Tuck, but come on," Sam said with a roll of her eyes, "what's really going on."

"I'm not lying!" Tucker insisted, "Tucker is a nickname my parents gave me because they hate my real name just as much as I do!"

"Tucker," Danny started with concern, "your parents are the ones that named you, why would they hate it."

"They weren't the ones to actually name me, it's a family tradition to let the grandma name her grandchildren."

"That's awful!" Sam immediately shouted, "Why would your parents give in if the name was so bad?"

"You've never met Grandma Foley," Tucker muttered darkly.

"Okay," Danny said, trying to diffuse the sudden tension, "If Tucker isn't your real name, then where did it come from."

Tucker heaved another weary sigh, "Tuckerton."

"What?!" Sam and Danny exclaimed at the same time, both incredulous.

"Tuckerton is the middle name my grandma gave me."

"Tuck," Danny placed a consoling hand on Tucker's shoulder, "I'm so sorry."

Sam, on the other hand, wanted more information. "Wait, if… Tuckerton, is your middle name, what's your first name?"

Tucker couldn't bare to look at his friend's faces as the truth finally slipped through his teeth, a train-wreck just waiting to happen.

"Willoughby."

Dead silence hung about the group, stretching on and on as the group collectively tried to process everything.

"Your name…"

"Yeah."

"Is…"

"Please don't say it."

"Willoughby Tuckerton Foley?"

Tucker groaned and and buried his face in his hands, not willing to look anyone in the eye for the next century.

Sam gasped as she realized something, "Your invites…"

Tucker groaned again and nodded, knowing his friend had probably figured it out. Danny said a soft, "What?" ever the oblivious one.

"They used your acronym didn't they?" Sam asked with pity and an edge of amusement leaking through.

"Grandma insisted."

"Oh my god."

"What?" Danny asked more insistently, still not catching on.

Tucker just grumbled and pulled out the invitations he'd shoved into his backpack and held one out for his friend, hoping he didn't need anything else to understand.

The roaring laughter that overcame Danny after glancing at the card told him he'd finally got it.

Emblazoned in fancy, _huge_ , black lettering was the beginning of the letter:

WTF


End file.
